Pining
by kassinova
Summary: Lance McClain always thought that he hated his fellow Voltron Paladin, Keith. However, he discovers that things aren't always what they seem... and his dreams have a tendency to reveal that to him. (Author's Note: • This fic makes reference to another fic of mine titled "Another Bonding Moment," so keep that in mind when reading. Also, this IS a Klance fic, just to avoid surprises)


Lance jolted awake in his bed, his hand flying to his chest and clawing at the skin over his heart.

He had dreamed about him again. He had dreamed about him just as he had the night before, and the night before that.

He had dreamed of him—his eyes, his lips, his touch, his voice _—_ and it drove him mad.

Utterly, explicitly, psychotically _mad._

He wanted to slam his face into the wall as hard as he could and rip every single strand of hair on his head out by the roots. He was about three seconds away from ejecting himself out the air lock without a second thought.

Of _all_ his _favorite_ people to dream of—Jennifer Lawrence, Harrison Ford, Margot Robbie, Carrie Fisher—he _had_ to dream of that stupid, self-centered, obnoxious, over-achieving _turd-wipe_ of a Red Paladin. He had a freaking 2007 redneck scene-kid mullet, for God's sake. _Heck,_ even freaking _Steve Buscemi_ would've been better to dream about than Keith Kogane _._

But at the same time, he couldn't help but gaze past the glow-stars stuck randomly on his ceiling in thought. As much as he hated the dark-headed Texan, he couldn't forget the way that Keith (or, rather, the dream version of him anyway) had pulled him closer by the collar and kissed him underneath the array of galaxies and nebulas swirling on the other side of the glass on the observation deck. He couldn't forget the way his body had melted into his own with such a comfortable ease that it seemed like it had happened a million times before, like it was perfectly normal. He couldn't forget the look in the Paladin's eyes when he had pulled away and pressed their foreheads and noses together and laughed for seemingly no reason at all.

It had felt so real, almost too real to be a dream.

It had seemed too intimate a dream to have about someone that he wasn't deeply and unapologetically in love with.

No. No, no, no. This wasn't happening. He _hated_ Keith. He _hated_ him. He…

He loved him. Or liked him. Or some odd, unwelcome, uncalled-for feeling of the sort.

Lance pounded that last thought out of his head with the palm of his hand and half-groaned, half-screamed in exasperation. He grimaced at the thought of that word: intimate. That was too strong a word. It wasn't like he dreamed that they _did_ anything—it was just a kiss, nothing else. Affectionate, maybe? Whatever the word was, it occurred too often and too realistically for him to just brush it off as some random dream his brain generated to keep him awake at night.

I mean, at least it was better than his chronic nightmares, right? Right?

Lance didn't know. He'd almost rather have the nightmares.

Maybe it was just the weird dreams he'd been having about Keith making him think weird things. It _totally_ wasn't because he was in _love_ with him….

But, deep down, Lance knew what was really happening.

He really _was_ falling in love with Keith. It had all begun way, wayyy back when Lance had saved Coran from that explosion right after he found the Blue Lion and Keith had held him in his arms as he struggled to keep breathing, to keep his heart beating. It had only grown. Slowly, yeah—but Lance had covered it up with self-proclaimed hatred, with adulterated pride.

It was becoming much, much harder to cover it up, now. Especially since he couldn't really seem to control how much he seemed to flirt around Keith— _and_ how obviously offended he got when Keith wouldn't react or flirt back.

But, then again, there was always that night they had shared under the stars on the observation deck. He had accidentally told Keith a few things that he probably shouldn't have—about his brother and his family and all—but Keith had told him a few things about himself that no one else had known, too. That was a start, wasn't it? They had had another bonding moment, just as Keith had said. And Keith even _flirted_ with him for the first time…

(" _Did you just ask me out for coffee?")_

….and they had spent even more time alone just drinking coffee and talking. And there was always that look that Keith had when Lance had gazed out into the stars. Lance had known that Keith had stared at him when he thought he wasn't paying attention, but Keith certainly didn't notice the Blue Paladin staring back when he was caught up in the countless constellations. Remembering that expression on Keith's face always left Lance in a daze. The childlike wonder reflected in the Texan's eyes gave him a glimpse of someone different—a Red Paladin of a different color, if he may. Someone other than the angsty, closed-off punk with the emo mullet who listened to too much Metallica and Chris Stapleton.

He wouldn't allow himself to think of it outright, but he couldn't help but beat himself up over that night. He could have told him then. He could have kissed him. The moment had been there. They had stared at each other for five whole seconds and not said a word, for God's sake. He _should_ have told him. He _should_ have kissed him.

Should have told him, what? It's not like Lance cared about him.

Yes, he did.

No, he didn't.

The Cuban sighed. Yes, he did. He cared about him too much to act like he didn't.

How could Keith be so oblivious?

That was another reason why Lance wished he could hate him.

But he couldn't make himself do it.

Soon enough, the truth would come bubbling between his lips to Hunk or Pidge or someone else—maybe even Keith himself—but he didn't _want_ it to. He didn't _want_ to admit those feelings to himself right now. He didn't _want_ to think about what it'd be like to be that close to Keith for real—to crush his own lips against his, to grab him by the hips and pull him closer, to feel his breath on his cheeks and to taste the sparks on his tongue.

Ironically enough, he thought about it anyway.

His heart lurched, and he rolled onto his stomach and buried his face in his pillow and growled so harshly that his throat hurt. This had gotten embarrassingly out of hand. He wanted to hate him so bad. He wanted to despise him, to loathe him. But, _God_ , how could he? How could he hate _that_? How could he hate those slate-grey eyes and that pale skin and that stupid mullet and those _arm_ muscles _, hot_ _dang_ —stop it, Lance. Stop it.

It was too hard to stop.

He rolled over onto his back again and rubbed his eyes with his fists. Maybe he'd forget the way Keith made his chest constrict with hopeful anxiety when he got too close. Maybe he'd forget the way his cheeks burned when they made eye contact. Maybe he'd forget the way his eyes lit up with Keith looked in his direction or smirked at his lame jokes. Maybe he'd forget Keith.

Maybe he'd forget him.

But that wasn't very likely, now, was it?

Lance certainly didn't think so.

Not one bit.

Not at all.


End file.
